


Deck the Dungeons

by jedishampoo



Category: Oglaf
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Mistress dredge up some spirit for MerrySolYuleMas? Maybe tributes -- er, presents -- will do the trick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck the Dungeons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [langsdelijn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/langsdelijn/gifts).



> I used your "a day in the life of a tyrant" prompt, and this was tons of fun to write. I hope you enjoy, dear requester, and I hope I made this as porntastic as this fandom deserves. Happy Yuletide!

"Hmph," Mistress said.  So it was a holiday, big deal.  And she was having a party.  So what?  She always had parties.  That didn't mean she had to endure _cheer_.  That shit was catching.  
  
"Hum hum hum, hum hum hum hum," hummed the Captain of the Guard, under her breath.  
  
"Mmmm?" hmmed Mistress.   
  
The captain subsided.  She was very quiet for a bit, but soon began to fidget.  
  
"Jingle!" said something hidden under the captain's armor.  
  
"Hmmm!" Mistress said.  
  
The captain coughed and stood very, very still.  
  
 _Cheer._   Just yesterday, the Hot Bitches had moaned for some essence of clove and cinnamon in their truffle oil.  And a bunch of the castle guards and slaves had decorated their cubbyholes with bits of shiny string and little signs that said "Happy MerrySolYulemas."  Mistress remembered back in the day, when she'd been but a wee tyrant, and they'd called it plain, old Winter Solstice. The human sacrifices had been totally epic.   
  
Nowadays everything was so goddamned politically correct.  There were still sacrifices, of course, but a lot of nations had developed so many rules and procedures that they could make a beheading more boring than a class on baby care.   
  
All she knew was, if she had to endure this shit, she'd better get some fucking awesome-ass tributes.  Presents.   
  
Presents, yay!  "Fetch your tongue-wax, slave," she told the sexy thang groveling at her feet.  "I desire to be silky-smooth for my visitors."  
  
And yea, the wax was fetched, and yea did the slave slather it up her legs and thighs and pussy— _mmmm_ —with her tongue.  And yea did she nibble it off, gently and precisely, just as she'd been trained.  And lo, Mistress was soon depilated and in a much better mood, and the guards did jingle a bit more freely.  But discreetly, still, since _he_ had not yet said if _he_ was coming.   
  
 _He_ was the funnest out of all the stupid ambassadors, because he was the only one she hadn't had to pervert herself; he'd come from the womb that way, the sick, twisted darling.  But he hadn't been around as much lately, not since she'd ditched her last apprentice and been unable to find a new one.   
  
She'd tried, but almost nobody would answer her ads anymore.  At first they had, but they'd only lasted until she said "the job is yours," and then they'd instantly keeled over dead.  Or vomited blood and then keeled over dead.  There had been a few really interesting ones who'd vomited blood and then spontaneously combusted, but overall, the situation was getting tiresome.   
  
The cause had to be some magical contract she hadn't yet figured out how to break.  She'd get it eventually, though, or maybe just take him back.  Stupid fucking undead apprentice.  Or more accurately, stupid fucking undead virgin apprentice.  Maybe that had something to do with it.  Hmm.  
  
***  
  
There were no virgins in the castle that day, and barely a bare ass went unspanked, which meant that the party preparations were going well.  Mistress herself almost hum hum hummed as she flicked a nipple there or stropped a testicle there and oversaw the dusting and straightening of the lightning-and-cocks portrait of her own immense hotness that hung over the throne.  
  
Because, presents.  
  
Soon the red silk was draping on the floors and walls and the poisonous-but-very-pretty berries were hung in every dark, secluded corner and the lightning spell she'd cast on the ceiling arced with a festively eerie glow.  Mistress drew the line at politically correct holiday signage but allowed her guards to wear the bells, as long as they let them dangle out their panties like tiny, jingling testicles, because that was totally funny and slightly holiday-subversive.   
  
Mistress sighed with satisfaction and sat on her throne.  She snapped her fingers.  Within moments a glass of wine had been dunked into the fountain and given over to her perfectly manicured fingers. The wine was slightly spiced and her skin tingled with a warm glow under her green latex bodysuit.  Its boob-window was very cunningly cut.  Mistress hoped he would come, if only to tell her how fabulous she looked.  She sighed.  
  
"Bring on the tributes," she called to her doorkeeper.  
  
"Presents, mistress," the Captain of the Guard whispered.  
  
"Presents," she agreed and took another sip of wine.  
  
The giant doors swung inwards and the usual line of supplicants—er, party guests—inched forward.  First was the governor of Kocks-Wallowberg, a tall, thin, elderly fellow with a penchant for sheep-fuckers.  He didn't fuck sheep himself, but only other people who fucked sheep.  Unsurprisingly, the chief export of the Kocks-Wallowberg district was wool.  
  
"My dear Dark Ladyship," the minion said, and bowed.  "Happy MerrySolYulemas."  
  
"Hello, Governor," Mistress yawned.  "Where is my tribute?"  
  
"Present, Mistress," the Captain of the Guard whispered.  
  
"Present," Mistress grated out between clenched teeth.  
  
"I have brought you, O Salacious Evilness—" the governor gestured at a probable sheep-fucker behind him "—a partridge in a pear tree."  
  
The sheep-fucker held a bucket, and in it was  ... a little tree.  It was decorated with red- and green-dyed wool.  There were a couple of improbably fat fruits hanging from its spindly branches, and a grey bird, presumably the partridge, huddled at the top, looking nervous.  
  
"What does it do?" Mistress said, giving the present a raised eyebrow.  
  
"It's ... a partridge in a pear tree," the governor said.  
  
"And?"  
  
"Uh.  Er.  It's ... very traditional?" the governor said.  His hands shook as he directed the sheep-fucker to set it down before her throne.  "And frightfully expensive," he added.  "I got it from Gerry and Labia's in North Organ, and it seems the fruit it bears is so smooth and juicy, it can be eaten with a straw."  
  
"Hmm," Mistress hmmed.  As she stared, the grey bird nibbled at one of the fruits and then shat on the other one.  Mistress's raised eyebrow became a dark look.   
  
The governor and the sheep-fucker turned and ran.  Mistress scratched her ear with her pinky, and the Captain of the Guard snapped her fingers.  One of the doorkeepers hefted her weapon in a salute and then took off after them.  
  
"My next present better be ... better," Mistress called to the crowd.  
  
"Oh, it is!"  The next in line was the ambassador from Bango.  She was a tall, gorgeous brunette, and one of Mistress's sort-of friends.  She was wearing something fabulous, but filmy and pink and not nearly as fabulous as green latex.  She led forward a giant, muscle-bound slave, naked except for a few strips of leather and a fake white beard.  His hands were hidden, or perhaps tied, behind his back.  He had a massive cock.  Mistress brightened.  
  
"Hullo, Parmythia," Mistress said.  "Is this my tr— present? What does he do?"  
  
Parmythia nudged the slave, and the slave straightened.  "Ho ho ho," he said.  
  
"Flattery is good. What else?" Mistress asked.  
  
"Have yer—er," he began, and Parmythia poked him in the side and mouthed something at him.  Apparently he wasn't too bright?  "You have. Er. Been a.  Nau ... ghty.  Yes, naughty.  Girl?"  
  
"Of course," Mistress said. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of her throne.  
  
"Then I.  Umm.  Bring you.  These?"  He brought his hands around, and the Captain of the Guard jingled in preparation for an attack.  But he only held a couple of stupid-looking, fat white birds.   
  
Mistress glared.  
  
"Two turtledoves," Parmythia said quickly.  "Exceptionally rare, and delicious for breakfast."  
  
"Stupid!" Mistress cried.  "I don't arise early enough for breakfast!"  
  
"Sorry?" Parmythia said.  
  
Mistress's pinky hovered near her ear.  "Any other fucking moron who's brought me birds?  Start running."  
  
Parmythia, along with the Primester of Gall and the ambassador from Phonex and all their various minions, turned with a flurry of feathers and booked it out the door, calling apologies the whole way.  Someone whispered "Ixnay on the ans-sway!"  
  
Mistress gave them a thirty-second head start before she shoved her pinky into her ear canal.  
  
"Looks like a bunch of Gallic hens and calling birds," the Captain noted.  Mistress's slaves scrambled to sweep up the disarray before the mess of birds shat all over her red silk rug.  
  
"We didn't bring you birds!" a perky voice called.  It was Doron, the Governor of Fair Ithilia.  "I brought you—"  
  
He gestured and five cute, topless girls stepped forward.  They held out their palms, upon which rested—   
  
"Five goooooooollllld rings," they sang in unison. Their boobs jiggled.  
  
Mistress leaned forward.  "Rings of power?"  
  
The girls looked at each other.  "No?  Just five goooooooollllld rings," they sang again.  
  
"Hmm," Mistress said, considering.  The rings were pretty big and shiny.  Gold was shit for making weapons, but it was decent for binding spells.  
  
Oh! Oh! She could give them to five of her governors, and lie and say they were rings of power.  That would be fun.  She could even put disloyalty curses on them first.  Or, she could lay gonohrric curses on them and give them to diplomats from places that'd pissed her off.  There were lots of those, and she only had a limited number of guards.   
  
"I accept," she said.  
  
Everyone cheered, and yea, the spiced wine did flow freely for few moments.  But just a very few.   
  
"Who's next?" Mistress called after those moments had passed.  _He_ still hadn't shown up, dammit.  
  
The Happily Married King and Queen of Rogerston stepped out of the crowd.  They'd had "happily married" formally added to their titles, just to shove it in everyone's faces.  "We have brought you six fools a fucking, O Mistress Our Ally!" they said.  
  
"Five goooooooollllld rings," someone sang from somewhere.  Mistress glared and the voices tapered off.  
  
But the six fools a-fucking were indeed as advertised; three men and three women, wearing sexy jester outfits complete with belled hats, fucked their way forward.  They were quite muscular and good-looking.  And limber.  Somehow they managed to suck cock and plow ass and double-penetrate, all while shuffling along the floor in a mass of jester-suited flesh.  
  
"Those are the fittest fucking fools I've ever seen," Mistress allowed.  
  
"They're funny, too," the Happily Married Queen said.  "Six fit, funny fools a-fucking."  
  
"Five goooooooollllld rings," sang five very low voices.  
  
"We fuck for your pleasure and ours," one of the fit fuckers grinned at her.  He began juggling with his left hand and diddling a woman with his right, while she managed a creditable rim-job on one of the other men, who was balancing a ball on his nose and fucking one of the women at the same time she was getting it up the rear from a girl with a strap-on.  That woman had her legs in the air, her pointed toes waving a series of multicolored scarves, and she was getting a good rug-munching from a guy who was stretched and twisted to give the juggler a hand-job.  It was a fine circle-jerk, and Mistress sat back with her wine and watched to see what they'd do next.  
  
The strap-on girl was the only one who told jokes that were actually funny, but the rest of the fuckers were amusing enough as long as they kept their mouths focused on their sucking and licking.  And juggling.  
  
"Now, that's interesting," Mistress said. She writhed happily on her throne, feeling nice and wet.  
  
"Oh, and there's more," one of the fuckers said.  He thrust his hips, and the scarf-toed girl went flying off his cock and into the air.  She brandished a pair of nunchucks, and where the fuck had she stored those, exactly?  
  
"Die, o evil one," the Happily Married King cried.  
  
The six fools a-fucking started whirling as they screwed, knocking out bystanders.  "We are masters of fuck-fu," the ball-guy said as he flipped forward into a handstand and started spinning on his fingers.  His legs twirled in the air, and the fucker who'd been riding him sat between his legs and spread his own limbs until they were a whirling dervish of muscular legs and arms and dangerous hands and feet, attached at the ass and knocking away every guard who tried to stop them.  
  
Kick, thrust, twirl, fuck, punch, lick, and karate-chop they all a-went.  The girl who'd been DP'd could suck cock and toss throwing stars with her toes at the same time, and the scene started to get bloody as her weapons and the hand-job guy's ankle spurs cut into the crowd surrounding them.  That was even more interesting than the funny fucking, but ultimately disloyal.  And so many guards and guests had become involved that Mistress could no longer tell who was trying to kill her and who was trying to protect her.   
  
Mistress whistled, and some of her ceiling lightning streaked down into the melee, frying those at the center of it and sending her surviving guards staggering off.  
  
"Captain?"  
  
The Captain jingled into action.  She pushed into the mass of bloodied and blackened folk and emerged, dragging the Happily Married Queen, who was still twitching from her electrocution.  
  
Mistress jumped from her throne.  "Your fools' fuck-fu has failed!" she cried at the Queen, grinning as widely as she could ever remember grinning.  "And now comes your real punishment!"  
  
"My, my.  What's this?"  That was a new voice coming from the doorway, and it was him!  _He_ was here, the Ambassador from Xoan.  Mistress laughed in unmitigated glee and strode—sensuously, of course, because one should always keep up appearances no matter how giddy one was—over to meet him. She hugged him, and they gave each other fake kisses on either cheek.  
  
"You missed it," she pouted at him, stroking a finger down his blue chest.  He looked paler than usual.  She wondered if he was still mourning ... nah.  "It was fucktastic."  
  
"Looks messy," the Ambassador drawled.  He held out some little silver vials.  "But never fear, my Dark Mistress.  I've brought you a present!  The latest thing from back home."   
  
"Ooh," Mistress said, taking one of the vials from his fingers.  "What is it?"  
  
"Time-travel drugs.  The more you take, the further back in time you go."  He checked out the scene of carnage, quickly being cleaned by some diligent slaves.  "We'll start with a teensy bit so you can show me the fun.  Then we'll have some more and relive one of your splendid parties from yesteryear."  
  
"Oh, let's.  Fa la la la la," Mistress cooed.  This was going to be the best MerrySolYulemas ever.  
  
  


 


End file.
